


Wash Away My Colours

by Dollars_tore



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: (Why is that not a tag?), (again...why is that not a tag?), Depressed Ryuugamine Mikado, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Izaya gives him all the hugs, Orihara Izaya is a softie, Other, References to Depression, Ryuugamine Mikado Needs a Hug, Suicidal Thoughts, This is fluffier than it was meant to be, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27690941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dollars_tore/pseuds/Dollars_tore
Summary: He wasn’t sure when he started feeling like this, it could’ve been when the gang war came dangerously close to the point of no return, it could’ve been when Masaomi left, not that it really mattered. It wasn’t a gradual thing – he wouldn’t be noticing it now if it was – it wasn’t a sudden development either, the feeling was too familiar.
Relationships: Orihara Izaya/Ryuugamine Mikado
Comments: 1
Kudos: 29





	Wash Away My Colours

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings just to be safe:  
> \- Depression  
> \- Self-harm  
> \- Suicide

He wasn’t sure when he started feeling like this, it could’ve been when the gang war came dangerously close to the point of no return, it could’ve been when Masaomi left, not that it really mattered. It wasn’t a gradual thing – he wouldn’t be noticing it now if it was – it wasn’t a sudden development either, the feeling was too familiar.

His phone was pinging next to his head, he didn’t try to reach for it; his arm felt too heavy, too numb, too foreign. He rolled onto his side, body aching as though he’d been running for hours, but he knew he hadn’t. How long had he been there exactly? Minutes? Days? He couldn’t tell, he wasn’t sure if he cared.

He gazed out the window directly in front of him, not really seeing all that much from his spot on the floor, watching as the sky slowly darkened. His phone had fallen silent hours ago; at least, he thinks it did. He hesitates for only a moment before reaching for it, sluggish, the leaden weight of his arm barely manageable as he wraps his fingers around it.

Missed calls, voicemails, frantic messages from Masaomi and Anri; he ignores all of them, a heavy ball settling in his stomach as he did so. He’s not sure why he picked it up, bloodshot eyes staring at the screen as though waiting for it to answer him.

He opened the old chatroom, though it felt as though someone else was pressing the buttons, the familiar colours feeling almost nostalgic, as if he hadn’t seen them for years though he knew it had probably been a day or two at most. He doesn’t remember opening the private messaging window, he doesn’t even remember what he typed or even who he messaged, just that he did.

An hour passes, or maybe it was two. His phone was dead in his hand, the last dregs of his battery long since used up. He didn’t put it down, he tried to will himself to let go, the phone was still in his hand.

More time passes, he feels his eyelids grow heavy though they remain frozen, his eyes ache but he can’t bring himself to care.

He thinks he hears a door creak, or maybe it’s his window. He doesn’t move, not even when the footsteps stop behind his head. His phone isn’t in his hand, he didn’t let go. A knife is slid in its place, he blinks, there’s someone else in the room. He doesn’t need to see their face, the fur cuffs and rings are all he needs.

No words are exchanged, he knows what this is, even in moments like this his guest was ever the observer. He thinks about it; thinks about slicing at his wrists until the floor’s stained red, thinks about turning it around and striking the chasm in his chest. He lets the knife slip from his fingers, watches it thud against the floor.

The blade is pulled away from him, he glances up, watches the other man inspect his phone. He distantly realises he must’ve passed some kind of test, he’s too tired to even attempt to figure out what it was.

There’s a hand in his hair, he regains enough awareness to lean into it, god how long had it been since someone had held him? Did he say that out loud? He must’ve done.

A familiar jacket was draped over him; he hadn’t noticed how cold he’d been, not until he felt his arms being guided into the sleeves. It was big on him, he found himself liking it.

He feels himself being pulled against the man’s chest, his knuckles turning pale against his shirt as an arm wrapped around his shoulders, the hand repositioning itself in his hair. He might’ve started crying at some point, he doesn’t remember, but the dampness on his face is enough of an indicator.

Izaya’s uncharacteristically quiet, it’s something he should probably be suspicious of, but right now it’s exactly what he needs. The arms around him tighten as though he’d read his mind, or perhaps he’d said it out loud again.

Distantly he remembers a warning, remembers being told to stay away. A bitter feeling crawls up his throat, he chokes it down, presses his face against the Informant’s neck as a sob forces its way from his throat. He doesn’t stop for a while, and when he does he feels exhausted, it’s not the same feeling as before, the leaden weight replaced with something lighter.

He feels more than hears his guest humming, the faint vibrations feel nice against his head, soft breaths disturbing his hair and lightly tickling his neck. He hadn’t been held like this since he was a kid and though he knew he’d probably be embarrassed in the morning, being this vulnerable in front of one of the most dangerous people he knew, he made no attempts to move away.

He half expects a taunt, or a reprimand, he gets neither. He feels the informant pull away, he panics, the hand returns to his hair momentarily. He’s dimly aware of the informant setting up the futon, feels himself being placed on it, the blanket pulled up to his chin.

His hand closes around the informant’s leg before he’s even aware he’s doing it, he waits for him to pull it away, waits for the laughter. He doesn’t expect the warm weight pressing against his back, he doesn’t expect the arms wrapping around his waist. He turns, surprised when the older man merely holds him tighter.

He doesn’t try to fight it when his eyelids grow heavier, for probably the first time in a few days, he’s not sure his friend? Acquaintance? Just what were they now? Either way, he’s not sure the man would let him fight it for long. He hears the informant say something, but his mind’s too foggy to hear it, he knows he won’t remember it when he wakes up.

Refreshed, a feeling he hadn’t felt for a while now, is what greets him when he wakes up. His companion isn’t there, not that he expected him to be, half of him suspects he dreamt the whole thing. He spots the note lying a few feet from him there are no words, merely two number sequences; one he recognises as a suicide helpline, the other – as he will later learn – is Izaya’s personal number, something about that makes him smile.

He’s still wearing the informant’s jacket…

He wonders if the man would let him keep it.


End file.
